


Lace and Gold Braid

by Elsajeni



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Masturbation, Podfic Available, Requited Unrequited Love, Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Sexual Fantasy, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 03:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20807927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni
Summary: "Looking like that?" Crowley says, and the Aziraphale of his imagination, rather than huffily miracling a more appropriate outfit, glances down at himself and says, "Oh."Crowley takes a step towards him, another, closing the distance very, very carefully."That coat, to start with," he says, "not suitable at all. Gold braid, honestly. That—" and his hands are on the coat, and then under it, pushing it back off Aziraphale's shoulders, "—simply has to go."After rescuing Aziraphale from the Bastille, Crowley spent seventy years or so in bed. He even told Aziraphale so.He never technically said he wassleeping.





	Lace and Gold Braid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fynnkaterin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fynnkaterin/gifts).

> Inspired by [this excellent post](https://fynnkaterin.tumblr.com/post/187039068491/the-fact-of-the-matter-is-that-for-every-fancy) by fynnkaterin.
> 
> Beta credit to [forthegreatergood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood) and [hubblegleeflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower) \-- thank you, friends!

"Looking like that?" Crowley says, and the Aziraphale of his imagination, rather than huffily miracling a more appropriate outfit, glances down at himself and says, "Oh."

Crowley takes a step towards him, another, closing the distance very, very carefully.

"That coat, to start with," he says, "not suitable at all. Gold braid, honestly. That—" and his hands are on the coat, and then under it, pushing it back off Aziraphale's shoulders, "—simply has to go."

_Preposterous. Impossible. It didn't happen, and it wouldn't have, and it won't, ever._

"Of course," the imaginary Aziraphale breathes, and lets Crowley strip the coat off him, and doesn't even complain when Crowley drops it carelessly on the floor.

Crowley studies him with a critical eye, runs the back of one hand down the rich rose-pink fabric of his waistcoat— gold braid on that, too, he notes. Aziraphale shivers.

_That's a bit much even for a fantasy, isn't it?_

Fine. Aziraphale does _not_ shiver, but does close his eyes and take a deep breath. "That too, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes," Crowley murmurs, and walks his fingers across to the buttons, starts working his way down. "Oh, yes, this too. And don't get me started on your cravat, angel."

It's a long waistcoat— out of style by now, really, not that he'd expect anything else from Aziraphale. On the one hand, it's a pity; the shorter style that's in vogue now, paired with the close-fitted breeches, leaves a great deal less to the imagination, and Crowley fancies that it would be very flattering indeed on Aziraphale.

On the other hand, it does mean there are a _lot_ of fiddly little golden buttons for Crowley to occupy himself with. To undo, very carefully, one at a time, press the fabric open and run his fingers slowly, lightly, down Aziraphale's shirt as he reveals it inch by inch— and then on to the next button, to do it all over again, and again, and again.

_If you'd really taken this long about it, that executioner would have woken up five minutes ago._

Crowley is pulled unwillingly back to reality, in which he is not, much to his regret, undressing an angel in an implausibly airy and well-lit dungeon in France. In which he is instead lying draped over a chaise longue in his own townhouse, with one hand over his eyes and the other down the front of his breeches, breathing hard and wishing he'd done everything differently and absolutely furious with Aziraphale for— for having the audacity, after more than five thousand years of friendship, to show up dressed like _that_, do _this_ to him, buy him lunch and then just _fuck cheerfully off_ as if that had _settled_ it—

_And why shouldn't he? You're being ridiculous. He doesn't know anything about this. And he had better never find out, or you can bet that's the last you'll see of him._

Crowley grits his teeth and wishes, for far from the first time, that he could figure out how to shut off that critical, observing, questioning little voice. It's caused him more than enough trouble over the long millennia; it would be nice if, just this once, it would fuck off and let him daydream in peace.

"_You're_ ridiculous," he mutters aloud to the voice. "Who said anything about him knowing? And it's my miracle keeping the blessed executioner out of the way, I can take as long as I like."

He shuts his eyes again and tries to think— where was he?

Ah, yes. Descending the line of Aziraphale's buttons. In his imagination, the angel's chest is warm beneath his fingers through the fine linen of his shirt. Crowley works his way south with tremendous care, down Aziraphale's breastbone and over the softer flesh of his belly. He keeps his gaze studiously fixed on his work, on his own busy fingers, not sure even in the safety of his own fantasy that he can face Aziraphale's expression.

Not sure, at least, until he reaches waist level and sinks to one knee, the better to focus on the last few buttons. Above him, Aziraphale gasps, and then says in a hushed voice, "_Crowley_—"

The last button done, Crowley throws the waistcoat open, pushes it back around Aziraphale's hips. It makes a very fine frame for the sturdy muscles of his thighs, the dove-grey fabric of his breeches, fall-front and cut close to the body and—

Oh. Oh, those breeches don't leave anything at _all_ to the imagination, do they?

(He imagines it as a pleasant surprise, but the truth is, he's given this some serious thought. Strictly speaking, Aziraphale doesn't _have_ anything to leave to the imagination— or rather, he only does if he wants to, and who knows how often he bothers, or whether it's always a cock when he does? But they met in the public baths once, ages and ages ago in Rome, and Aziraphale had a cock then, and he's hardly changed anything _else_ about his appearance in the intervening centuries; Crowley feels fairly safe making the assumption.)

Dry-mouthed, Crowley tugs at the waistcoat.

"Get rid of this," he orders, when he feels he can trust his voice again. He still hasn't looked up, but he can see Aziraphale's hands hovering uncertainly between them for a moment. Then the angel obeys, stripping off his waistcoat in one efficient motion and tossing it aside to join his coat on the floor.

_Isn't that flattering, to think it would be this easy? Isn't that just like you, to fancy yourself so irresistible?_

"_Shut up_," Crowley growls aloud. In reality, his hand tightens around his cock, working urgently. In his mind's eye, he raises the same hand up— slowly, _slowly_— to brush his knuckles lighter than a breath down the front of Aziraphale's breeches.

Under the fabric, the hard line of Aziraphale's cock jumps visibly at his touch, and from above him there's another sharp intake of breath and a choked, "Crowley, _please_—"

"These," Crowley informs him, running his hand just as lightly back up to hook one finger in the waistband, "will _absolutely_ have to go."

"Yes, I see, they're much too—" Aziraphale's hands are fumbling at his own buttons suddenly, inches from Crowley's face. He isn't having much luck with them, and Crowley can't hold back a snake-sharp grin, seeing the way his hands shake. The effect Crowley's had on him. "You are _absolutely right_, Crowley, will you _help_—"

Crowley reaches out and grabs his wrist, stilling the fumbling fingers before they've undone more than a single button.

"But," he says lightly, "not just yet."

"Oh— _Crowley_—"

_Oh yes, Serpent of Eden, tempter of Eve— you could make it this easy, if you put your mind to it. But that isn't good enough, is it? Not for you, not for the stupid serpent who only wants what he can't have, what he will never—_

"Shut up shut up _shut up_," Crowley snarls, lunging to his feet, back again in the cold reality of his own sitting room.

He can't stand it. He can't stop thinking about stupid Aziraphale's stupid frills, the gold braid, the rich fabrics, the _lace_— and at the same time he can't seem to _let_ himself think about it, just get out of his own way and enjoy the fantasy for ten blessed minutes and then (please, _please_) be _over it_ already.

Maybe a nap will help. Just a week or two, just to take some of the nervous edge off, clear his head. He's been run off his feet lately— rushing back and forth across the Channel, miracling an angel out of prison, writing perhaps the most carefully-phrased report of his long career, and meanwhile filling his schedule with enough temptations and troublemaking that, hopefully, no one Below will ask any awkward questions about what took him to France in the first place.

That's probably it. He's probably just overtired.

* * *

What's meant to be a week or two's nap turns into a year or ten of fitful sleep, interrupted by uneasy dreams about a lace cravat that keeps re-knotting itself however Crowley tries to untie it. He wakes up disoriented and irritable, and his first coherent thought is: _Well? Are we over that blessed angel and his sanctified gold braid yet?_

Which is a mistake, because as soon as he thinks it, he's... thinking about it. About the gold braid, the silk slippers, the lace cascading from Aziraphale's cuffs. About the layers of rich fabric, pink and cream and gold, and stripping them away to find the angel underneath all pink and cream and gold, too, shy at being revealed but all eagerness at his touch—

All right. All _right_. Clearly, the situation is not going to conveniently resolve itself while he sleeps. The only thing for it is to _keep_ thinking about it, long enough to see the fantasy through to... completion, as it were, and hope that that will exorcise the idea and he can have some bloody _peace_.

He could make it easy on himself, make a temptation of it. The observing little voice was right about that, as it so often is. It's not as if he doesn't know what Aziraphale wants. Hardly takes demonic senses to pick up on it, what with all the kidnapped-princess oh-do-come-rescue-me theatrics. It would only take the smallest nudge.

It's not the way he'd most like to do it. But maybe it'll placate that critical little voice long enough that he can— well. Get this out of his system.

He lies back in bed, naked under his open silk banyan, and shuts his eyes. How would he have started it, if he did mean to make it a temptation?

Aziraphale appears at once in his mind's eye, giving him that sidelong glance and flutter of eyelashes, that prim little, "I suppose I should say thank you."

"Yes," Crowley says in a low voice, nearly a purr. He gets to his feet and stalks across the cell, circles around behind Aziraphale. "I suppose you should."

Aziraphale is used to his pacing. Normally he ignores it, and goes on chattering away to the empty space to his left where he knows Crowley will eventually end up. Something about Crowley's posture now, though, seems to put him on edge. He turns on the spot, as if trying to keep Crowley in view.

"Well," he says uncertainly. "I— Crowley, thank you. Truly."

Crowley smiles at him, wicked and just shy of predatory. "Oh, I think you can do better than _that_."

Aziraphale's mouth drops open in a silent little _oh_, and— oh, Crowley can _feel_ it, the wave of desire that washes over him when he realizes what Crowley's driving at. But it's gone almost as quickly as it arrived, Aziraphale drawing himself upright and squaring his shoulders, a gesture of invisible wings spread for battle. A gesture that would have been threatening in Heaven, but that Crowley's come to recognize on Earth as _brace for some sanctimonious scolding_.

"Crowley," the angel says sternly. "I'm certain I don't know what you're implying. And— and I shouldn't be thanking you anyway, should I? We'd both be in terrible trouble if anyone heard."

Crowley takes a long step forward. Aziraphale backs away from him.

_No. No, not like that. I hate this._ Another traitorous stray thought bubbling up; this one doesn't sound like the familiar nagging little critic. Some other part of his miserable psyche taking up rebellion.

Crowley bares his teeth and ignores it.

He prowls closer. Aziraphale holds his ground this time, raising his chin, but his eyes—

_Look at him. What am I doing? He's frightened of me._

_Well? Shouldn't he be?_ Now _that_ has the ring of the critical little voice he knows so well. _Are you the Serpent of Eden or aren't you? Press him. Make him yield. If you want this so badly, there's only one way you'll get it..._

Right. Enough stalling. He's not going to lose his nerve, not when he's this close to getting what he wants.

Crowley reaches out and catches the dangling lace of Aziraphale's cravat, tugging very lightly, just enough to suggest that he _could_ pull harder if he wanted to.

"You really ought to change into something more suitable," he says, and then, leaning closer, his voice just above a breath, "Don't you want me to help?"

It's not _manipulating_, exactly. (Or so Crowley is telling himself, firmly, repeatedly.) That's the whole point of temptation, isn't it? You find the hidden desire, and you put the thing they want in their way, and let them decide how far they'll go to get it. Coax them, maybe, remind them of all the reasons they want it, but in the end it's them making the choice.

So Crowley's long, clever fingers walk their way up the ruffles to the base of Aziraphale's throat, to where the cravat is tied. He toys with the knot, just starting to work it loose. "Well? Tell me, angel, tell me you want me to."

"Crowley, don't," Aziraphale says, his voice shaking. But he doesn't move away, and one of his hands comes up to join Crowley's, untying the knot the rest of the way.

"I know what you want," Crowley breathes. He unwinds the cravat and tosses it aside, runs a finger down the side of Aziraphale's exposed throat. "And I'll give it to you. But only if you tell me. What do you want me to do with all these lovely things you're wearing?"

He's not— well, it's a fantasy, for one thing (he opens his eyes for a moment to remind himself: in his own bedroom, alone, thrusting into his own hand). He's not doing _anything_, really. But even if it were real, he's not _making_ Aziraphale do anything. Pushing, coaxing, maybe, but not _making_ him.

"I want you to take them off me," Aziraphale gasps in his imagination, and Crowley lunges at the chance, fairly tearing his coat off, fumbling at the waistcoat buttons, to heaven with taking his time. "I want— but Crowley, we can't, please, _don't_—"

It's _his_ blessed fantasy, he is in charge around here, so why, _why_, as he throws the waistcoat aside and looks up to meet Aziraphale's gaze— _why_ does he imagine a look of wounded trust on the angel's face, so fragile and so _real_ that it turns his stomach?

"_Fuck_," Crowley snarls, back in his own bed, bringing both hands up to scrub at his face. He flings himself over onto his stomach, buries his face in the pillows, and hisses a stream of curses that would scorch the ears of any listening angels.

It doesn't help. He still feels sick.

_Serpent, tempter_, the watchful inner voice taunts him, and— tempter, yes, it's what he was made to be, what he's good at, maybe the only thing he's good _for_. He's _proud_ of it, takes pleasure in it, but here and now he tangles his hands in his hair and thinks wretchedly, _But not like this. Not with him.___

Eventually his mind quiets enough that he can think, _All right. So. Some lines that won't be crossed._ That pestering, traitorous, questioning little bit of him may think this would make a fine temptation, but to heaven with what it thinks. Even in fantasy, Aziraphale comes to him freely, no coaxing or pushing or _tempting_, or not at all.

He's ruined it for now, anyway. He may as well go back to bed for a while.

* * *

It's another decade or two before he can face the thought again. (Not that he _doesn't_ think about it, in the meantime— he just feels awful about it every time he does, and half the time it's interrupted by the same stomach-turning image of Aziraphale's stricken face. Unbearable, frankly. No wonder he sleeps through most of it.)

Ridiculous. Absolutely _ridiculous_, to still be thinking about this one over-frilled outfit after almost thirty years.

But Satan, once he starts thinking about it...

This time through, he starts from the silk shoes. He pushes Aziraphale back, ever so gently, to sit on the little wooden stool in his cell, follows him down and then keeps going, until he's on his knees at the angel's feet.

"Silk slippers," he says, running two fingers down Aziraphale's ankle and then over to the buckle of the shoe. "Really?"

"I told you," Aziraphale says from above him, "I do have standards." His voice is a little breathy, less prim than Crowley might have expected.

Crowley hums and unfastens the buckle, setting the shoe aside. He keeps Aziraphale's foot in his hand, his touch careful, bordering on reverent.

"Can't have you in stocking feet on this dirty floor," he says, and slides one hand up Aziraphale's calf to his knee, starts undoing the buttons at the hem of his breeches.

He gets briefly stuck at this point, wondering how Aziraphale keeps his stockings up. Not, presumably, the same way Crowley does his, which is to tell them in a menacing hiss what he'll do to them if they don't stay up. Garters of some kind, probably. Crowley hasn't bothered with garters since it went out of fashion to wear them visibly; if it's just going to be hidden under an outer layer, what's the point? But he recalls the general principle.

The garter he imagines for Aziraphale is just a narrow strip of ribbon, wrapped three times around his leg and tied in a sensible little bow at the outside of the knee. Which means he can imagine, once he has the breeches unbuttoned at the knee and rolled up, taking one end of the bow and slowly, slowly pulling it loose, unwinding the ribbon an inch at a time, leaning in so close to his work that Aziraphale's stockinged leg rests against his chest. Close enough that his cheek nearly touches the angel's knee, close enough that his lips would brush over the sheer silk if he turned his head just a bit.

_Do it_, the critical inner voice puts in. _Do it, and see him recoil. You know he would, if this were real, if you ever had the courage to try it._

He has the awful feeling the voice is right once again. That even in fantasy, even with all his imagination, he won't be able to convince himself that Aziraphale would allow this. That it will be the temptation all over again, the same wounded look, the same protest— not the token _Crowley, we mustn't_ but the real, pained _Crowley, don't_.

But once he's had the idea, it's too much to resist. He turns his head, just a bit.

"Crowley," Aziraphale breathes from above him— but he doesn't move. Doesn't pull away from Crowley's breath ghosting over his skin, Crowley's lips brushing the inside of his knee.

Crowley, emboldened, rolls the stocking down an inch and presses another kiss to the bare skin he exposes, and Aziraphale gasps.

"Crowley," he says again, and then his hand lands in Crowley's hair and pulls, tugging him up, closer. "Crowley, _please_—" Crowley is on his knees between Aziraphale's thighs, craning up toward his face, the angel bending down to meet him, and Aziraphale kisses him, hard and hungry and breathless, and—

Back in the reality of his townhouse, eyes squeezed shut so tightly he sees stars, Crowley shudders and bucks and comes with a gasp, spilling hot across his stomach.

For long minutes all he can do is lie there, chest heaving, trembling through the aftershocks. The vision of Aziraphale has dissipated, and he's back in his sitting room, his head tipped back over the arm of the chaise, staring up at the ceiling.

Gradually, as coherent thought returns, it occurs to him that he didn't even really get to the good part.

Ridiculous, really. Not remotely demonic of him. Bad enough to be fantasizing about an angel in the first place; frankly embarrassing to bring himself off to a fantasy as chaste as _ooh, maybe he'd let me untie his garter_.

He'll just have to think through it again later, and get it right this time.

* * *

The fourth time, he skips straight to the point and starts with the breeches.

"Oh, these _really_ must go," he says, and even within the fantasy it has the sound of a flimsy excuse, especially when he pauses after undoing the first two buttons to slip his hand inside and find Aziraphale's cock.

The angel is hard before Crowley's so much as touched him (Crowley can hear the watchful little voice gearing up to mock him, and thinks fiercely at it, _Shut up, it's my fantasy, I can flatter myself if I like_), and he gasps and sways on his feet at the first brush of Crowley's fingers, the first stroke of his fist. Crowley puts a steadying arm around his waist and steps closer, Aziraphale leaning into him with a moan, and, oh, he's going to enjoy this version of his little daydream _very_ much.

He does, eventually, withdraw his hand for long enough to strip the breeches off entirely, fiddly little buttons at the knees and all. (He imagines Aziraphale protesting when he takes his hand away, begging him not to stop, and has to open his eyes and still his hand for a long moment until he can get himself back under control.) But that's all— he likes the thought of Aziraphale coming apart for him like this, breeches around his ankles but otherwise fully dressed, all his fine silks and brocades in disarray as he gasps and trembles and begs Crowley for more.

He imagines bringing Aziraphale off just like that, with his hand, pulling him close and kissing him to keep him quiet as he comes— and Crowley comes, too, as he pictures it, on his knees in his bed and hissing pleasure between his teeth.

_Getting a little off-topic, aren't we?_ the needling little voice puts in, when he's caught his breath. _Hardly touched a button that time. Wasn't it about the clothes, not the angel?_

Of course it's about the angel. It's only ever been about the angel. He remembers taunting himself with it, that first time he dared imagine this: _Stupid serpent, only wanting what you can't have._

Maybe it's his punishment, part of the curse he earned for that stunt with the forbidden fruit— to have this whole wretched, beautiful, human world before him, to have the power to tempt or take nearly anything he wants from it, and to only want the one thing he can't have, to only want Aziraphale.

Well. The one thing he can't have in reality, at least. But now that he's found the nerve to let himself imagine it— that's almost as good, isn't it? Good enough, if he can't have the real thing?

And all because of that gold braid and that ridiculous lace cravat. He ought to write a thank-you note to Aziraphale's tailor, really.

* * *

Once he's started, he can hardly seem to stop. He contemplates every possible permutation and method of getting Aziraphale's clothes off: painstakingly slowly, every button attended to with care, every garment gently folded and set aside before he moves on to the next, until (he imagines) Aziraphale is almost screaming with frustration, begging Crowley to _leave the damned stockings, just touch me_. Or all in a rush, tearing at the fabric, sending buttons flying in his haste to get at the angel, skin against skin, cock against cock. Working his way down from Aziraphale's cravat to his stockings, or up the opposite direction; stripping the angel fully naked before laying a finger on him, or touching, teasing, nipping at every inch of bare skin he uncovers along the way.

His imagination strays, sometimes, to the other things he's seen Aziraphale wearing over the years— the lace and gold braid may have been the first time he really _deliberately_ considered it, but it's hardly the first time the thought _now, how would I get him out of that_ has crossed Crowley's mind over the centuries.

He'd take just as much pleasure in laying Aziraphale bare whatever he was wearing, and he thinks through all of it, carefully and in detail. The ruffs and particolored hose and slashed doublets, the silk velvets and ribbons and elaborately embroidered cloaks, the deeply regrettable period in the fifteenth century when Aziraphale fell for poulaine shoes with points so long he could hardly walk. Even all the way back to the togas— he actually got to see Aziraphale strip out of a toga, that time at the public baths. There's not much _to_ taking off a toga, but he enjoys imagining it all the same, unwrapping the yards and yards of fabric to reveal the blushing angel underneath.

In the end, though, the fantasy always comes back to this most recent outfit. Something about all the trailing lace, he supposes— the delicacy of it, or the sheer excess. (Something about the way Aziraphale looked at him— no, that's dangerous territory, and he shies away from the thought.)

The watchful, critical little voice troubles him sometimes, but less and less often. What can it say to him, after all, that he doesn't already know? _Foolish. Masochistic, really. Teasing yourself with something you know you can't have_— of course he knows he can't have it. But he's made up his mind that this is good enough, this _will be_ good enough, and no skeptical little voice is going to convince him otherwise.

* * *

No matter how many times he dreams it, no matter how suave and worldly he intends to imagine himself, his fingers always tremble when he reaches for Aziraphale's cravat. He'd like to think it's demonic instinct, something about holding an angel by the throat.

He's rather afraid it's more about Aziraphale _letting_ Crowley take him by the throat, offering it up. Trusting him.

* * *

Five weeks after the end of the world, Crowley reaches for Aziraphale, as he's done so many times these last few weeks— as he's never going to get tired of doing, now that he can, now that it's _allowed_. He goes for the buttons of Aziraphale's waistcoat, and Aziraphale raises one hand to gesture it away, as _he's_ done so many times.

Crowley abruptly changes direction, catching him by the wrist.

"Don't."

Aziraphale blinks at him. "You don't want it off? There's a certain appeal to keeping some clothes on, I suppose—"

"I don't want you to take it off _like that_." He takes a breath, still feeling as if asking for this, asking for _anything_, is a bit of a risk. "Let me."

That gets him a disapproving look. "You're rough on clothes, dear. I'm tired of mending buttonholes."

"I'll be careful," Crowley promises. Inspiration strikes, and he adds, "In fact. Put on something different, so this old thing—" He hooks a finger into the waistcoat and tugs, but very, very gently; it is rather delicate, worn threadbare from years of use, and if he tears it now it he'll never hear the end of it. "—is perfectly safe."

"Put on something different, just so you can take it off me?"

"You'll like it," Crowley says, and pulls him closer, leaning in to trail kisses down his jawline. He says it again, low and warm, lips against the skin of Aziraphale's throat, "You'll like it. _Believe_ me."

_You'll like it, I'll make sure you like it, because I want you to let me do it a thousand more times, again and again and again..._

Aziraphale shivers. "Crowley—"

Crowley smiles against his throat— he knows that tone in Aziraphale's voice, the one that means he's just on the verge of yielding. He puts a little more serpent into his voice and suggests, trying to sound as if it's only just occurred to him, "That frilly thing you wore to France that once. Got you thrown in prison. Put that on."

He's hardly heard from the critical little voice since the world didn't end. The affection, the _love_ that Aziraphale has suddenly lavished on him is too unmistakable for that; even he can't find a way to doubt it, even with all his millennia of practice. But this is the first time he's dared ask for something this specific, something he's _wanted_ this badly, and the voice seizes the opportunity: _Pushing too far. Asking too much. He's so clever, he'll figure you out, all your secret little fantasies..._

It's right, he _knows_ it's right, and he's on the verge of pulling away and apologizing when Aziraphale says, "_This_ old thing?"

The fabric of his waistcoat changes under Crowley's hands, velvet to brocade, and— rather less pleasant— the skin Crowley's kissing is suddenly inaccessible, hidden under the layers of that much-imagined cravat.

He's an inch or two taller, too. Crowley glances down, grinning, and says, "Very thorough."

"I did always like these shoes."

"I'll be very gentle with them," Crowley assures him, and slowly, very slowly, pushes Aziraphale's coat back off his shoulders.

He does it exactly the way he imagined it, the first time he ever dared imagine it— slow, careful, attentive to every detail of the clothing. Attentive to every detail of Aziraphale's reaction, too, the way his breath catches when Crowley's fingers slide down his chest from button to button, the way he leans into the touch.

"Never thought I'd really get to do this," Crowley murmurs— and realizes that he's said it aloud, and freezes, a half-undone button still between his fingers.

Aziraphale lays a hand over his, pressing it to his breast. "My dear," he says— kindly, but there's just the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes. "You've gotten to do this a half-dozen times this week."

"Not _that_," Crowley protests, his face heating. "I mean— this. Get my hands on all this frilly stuff. Take it off you, a little bit at a time."

"You've thought about this?" It has the sound of a casual question. But Crowley's hand is still on Aziraphale's chest, and he doesn't miss the little hitch of breath, as if something about that idea surprised him.

_Shocked him, more like. Tell him. Tell him, and see him flinch. See if he ever lets you near him again, serpent, fiend of the pit..._

He almost believes it, almost pulls his hand back and runs. But... but that inner voice was wrong before, wasn't it? Wrong that this would never happen, wrong that Aziraphale would recoil from his touch. Wrong that he could never have the thing he wanted most.

"I have," Crowley says, heart in his throat. When Aziraphale doesn't flinch, he plunges recklessly on, "I've thought about it so much. For so long, angel. Could hardly think of anything else, after I'd seen you wearing this, not for— for years, Satan, for _decades_—"

"All that time you told me you'd been sleeping?" There's a new heat in Aziraphale's voice, and he shifts his grip on Crowley's hand, guides it back to his waistcoat buttons. It dawns on Crowley that, far from flinching away from it, he _likes_ this. Likes hearing that he was an object of fantasy. "Did you dream of me?"

Crowley makes quick work of the waistcoat, sinking to his knees to finish the last few buttons. When he looks up, Aziraphale is watching him, his eyes wide and dark. Crowley shivers.

"Take this off," he instructs, pushing the fabric back around Aziraphale's hips, and then, with a deep breath, "I did. I dreamed of you, and when I was awake I thought of you. Thought of doing this. Over and over and over."

"For _seventy years_," Aziraphale says, sounding sort of shocked and delighted and overwhelmed all at once.

"Well. Yes," Crowley admits, and raises one hand to brush, feather-light, across the front of Aziraphale's breeches, drawing a wonderful low groan from the angel. "So I'd better get these off too, hadn't I, and start making up for lost time?"

His hands do shake, just a little, when he gets to the cravat, and for one anxious second he's back in the fantasy, half-convinced that he'll open his eyes and find himself alone again. But as he manages to get the knot loose, Aziraphale puts a warm hand on the back of his neck, pulls him in close and breathes, "Oh, _Crowley_," into his ear, and— _you're real_, Crowley thinks absurdly, pressed against him, face buried in the curve of Aziraphale's shoulder.

He stays there for a long moment, feeling the warmth of Aziraphale's skin through the linen shirt, breathing in the faint incense-resin scent of him. Grounding himself in it until he feels brave enough to tug at the cravat again, pulling it free and mouthing at the exposed skin of Aziraphale's throat.

_You're real. You want me. You love me_— all he ever wanted, and more than he ever thought he'd have, and how, _how_ did he ever think that just imagining this could be enough?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Woven from Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817101) by [forthegreatergood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood)
  * [[Podfic] Lace and Gold Braid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23893756) by [semperfiona_podfic (semperfiona)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona_podfic)


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